"Oh, geez." That distraught tone would've been believable if it had come out of anyone else's mouth. "It's a real shame I'm such a sloppy drunk. Just hate the idea of ruinin' good fabric... or some important witch's pretty dress." He's got his eye on a couple prospects for that one already.

Seconds after he says that, though, he turns his gaze back on Eames, eyes narrowing. "It'd soak in to that," he nods, implying Eames' outfit, "just as well, I figure. Somethin' to keep in mind if you got one of those mouths that likes to run."

He only bothers making the threat because he's still not entirely clear on what Eames is. Right now, it's a tossup between some kind of metahuman, a fae, or a cranky witch who's annoyed at having to deal with vampires again. Anything but the last would be great.